


prophecies (on the tail of a comet, burning bright)

by pistolgrip



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, more or less, s4 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: Everyone's days have always been numbered. Keith just has more luxury than most in that he knows exactly how.“Fuck you, Keith,” Lance whispers into the crook of his neck, and it sounds broken and angry and like home, all at once.





	prophecies (on the tail of a comet, burning bright)

8.

Every planet is different, but the night is the great equalizer of the universe.

The distance between where he now lies in the earth and their home planet is immeasurable—but even now, he sees something like stars above, little fires strung haphazardly even when his vision is fading. He reaches his hand up towards them out of habit, as if he were a little boy again, but he can’t see it. But every planet has a night sky. It must be dark.

“Hey, come _on,_ you asshole, wake up!” A voice punctures his inner monologue, and his eyes open.

 

* * *

9.

There were no stars. Only the pinpricks of light against the back of his eyelids. Every sound is gutted, the heart of it missing but still echoing into his ears—the sound of explosions, or supernovas being born. Something or other. There’s only one thing in his line of sight, flickering in and out as the Blade mask begins to malfunction—it’s Lance, a knight in rose red armor, looking for all the world like he's on the verge of tears.

He laughs, because Lance isn't supposed to cry; everything is ineffable. There are no exceptions.

Before he was even conscious of it, he had felt himself drawn towards Lance, only known what had happened to himself when, regardless of his instinctive action, Lance looked like he’d seen death. Keith’s blood has always run hot, and it’s no different when it melts out from between his ribs, bringing him to his knees.

He laughs, because the disembodied universe has no voice with which to express its sick sense of humour. “’m awake.”

“What—why are you laughing, Keith, what the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” There's a dull thump next to his ear—Lance punches the ground next to him, and Keith laughs again, because it’s always been easy to do so around him.

“He's losing it, guys, he's fucking losing it,” Lance says, sitting up with new determination in his eyes. There are precise hands searching his face, his arms, his chest where the blade had sliced neatly between his ribs. The dagger is long gone, but he still feel the poison dancing in his veins, because the universe has a way of bringing the most unfortunate things together like they were always meant to be there.

“’m not losing anything,” he mutters, feeling the torturous snake of poison constrict his throat. _N_ _o, that's wrong._ “You guys aren't losing anything.”

“You fucking bet your ass we aren't, I'm not losing you now,” Lance says, running a hand through his own hair. “Stay awake, Keith, for fuck's sake, stay awake—I'll talk to you,” and he's rambling now, what little composure he had slipping.

Keith finds himself being lifted up gingerly, one arm around Lance's shoulders, and his brain registers that he’s burning up from the inside out, lava lurking just underneath his skin. But he's going to have to be more selective about which sensory information he wants to hold onto, so with all of his energy, he listens.

“Can you at least remember my name?”

When the words come out of Lance’s mouth, he at least spares a smile for this. A sick sense of humour is humour all the same, and Keith’s been in on the universe’s inside joke for as long as he’s been alive.

 

* * *

3.

It's not the first time he's considered that he was at the mercy of something unseen, being led through a museum of artifacts from long ago whose meanings can only be interpreted, things that exist for reasons he’d never know. The universe speaks to him, and he pieces it together in ways that barely make sense.

He doesn’t know what kind of purpose being completely isolated from human interaction was supposed to serve, but left to his own devices, he’d probably still be in the same situation: alone to the two-tone landscape of the desert, orange against blue.

With nothing left to do, he searches. It’s human nature to never stop searching—for answers, for questions, for people. He doesn’t have much left to lose, his parents long taken away from him, his only two friends declared dead, his chance at the Garrison obliterated. But he’d been kept alive for _some_ reason, whether it be through his own tenacity or the universe’s. In the outcrops of the desert, he finds something bigger than him, and it leads to this—

Running through the crashed ship's halls, so obviously alien but still receptive to his touch, doors opening for him without a second thought. The heart is the centre of all living things, and it’s no different in this ship; the paths he unlock go straight to a chamber where he sure as hell wasn’t expecting to find Shiro, still very much alive and breathing, if not worse for wear.

Really, what are the chances?

People say you're supposed to give some and then take some, but Keith's always been on the skewed end of that, always having had more taken from him—so it's maybe still the status quo when a visibly non-alien trio run through the doors he left open behind him in his haste.

He knows them from the Garrison. At least, he knows one of them, the one that immediately runs up to him, babbling about something or another, quickly slinging Shiro’s arm around his own shoulder to support his weight. It might be symbolic, but right now, since Lance doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get the _fuck out of here_ , it’s just a huge hindrance.

“Do you really not remember me?” Lance says, somehow still focused on _that_ instead of the fact that an alien ship's crash landed in the middle of the desert and that _Takashi Shirogane is still alive_ , and probes again. “Lance? Your rival? ‘Lance and Keith, neck and neck’?”

The disembodied universe needs a mouthpiece to mock Keith, so he snaps back at it. So someone can get the message. He’s allowed to, every once in a while, because he’s been taking everything that’s been thrown at him for so long. “No, who are you?”

(It’s a trick question. There are no chances.)

 

* * *

5.

 _We all have our thing,_ she had said. _Keith's the loner._

Maybe it's because she's right that the words trail behind him, insidious shadows sewn to the soles of his feet while they’re drafting plans, while they’re training, during their missions, until it overtakes him in the dark of the artificial night.

His time with Voltron is the most that Keith's opened up to others since he’d first met Shiro, and he'd almost consider them family, if he knew what that meant. All he has to go on to define it are the stories the team tells, out of context artifacts. He can only guess.

But something in him—or maybe, something all around him—is always seeking so fervently to isolate himself from everyone else, and it still overshadows his best efforts.

_Keith’s the loner._

(He nearly misses it when she says it: _Lance is the goofball._ He nearly misses the way Lance's face drops, just the slightest, before it smooths over. And he's become attuned to Lance lately like this, the way the tiredness creeps around his edges when he thinks no one is looking.

Of the entire team, he knows that his own right hand man is the quickest of them to reaching their limits. Their orbits are so elegantly tangled around each other that Lance is both pulling him out of the darkness while being in there himself.

“Leave the math to Pidge,” he mutters to himself, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes out of frustration. The castle ship is in the night cycle, and the only light in the room comes from the grooves in the wall—pulsing like a heartbeat, blue like the bottom of the ocean. “Leave the _fucking_ math—“

He kicks at the wall at the base of his bed, and it echoes in his room, metallic like the draw of blood.

Lance doesn't deserve this. None of them deserve to be subject to someone that's always been in the shadow of someone else, now fading into the blackness with the original gone. Lance has nothing to worry about, because it’s _Keith_ that’s never fit in with the rest of them, the most expendable of the Paladins. That much is obvious.)

 

* * *

10.

Lance’s armour can’t be red.

There is nothing romantic about this exploration of body; he paints streaks of red across his carapace, scrambling for a better grip. Lance’s armour can’t be red, because the blue reveals itself underneath his fingertips.

Basic maths.

 

* * *

7.

“They never stopped telling me that the only reason I was fighter class was because you dropped out.”

The revelation of it stings like the antiseptic Lance is rubbing into his arm so strongly he might as well be creating new scars, ignoring the hisses of pain that escape through Keith’s teeth. He has nothing to say, because what _can_ he? He knows he's never been good at words, always tried to let his actions speak instead.

He watches Lance move around the medbay, grabbing more supplies before slamming them down on the examination table next to him.

“Keith, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he explodes suddenly. One of the bottles rolls off the table and shatters against the ground. The smell of antiseptic is sharp, a blade held against his throat. “Why would you—why—what the _fuck_ was going through your head when you decided that _sacrificing yourself_ was the best plan?”

“What does it matter?” The words are jagged from where they erupt in his chest, feeling the unwelcome sting of tears at his eyes. He's never been good at controlling his emotions, and even less so when he’s around Lance. "I'm not a part of the team anymore, I’ve been with the Blades for months, you guys have Shiro back—”

“It matters because you're our _family!”_

At a loss, Keith looks towards him. He’s surprised at how it’s still a habit, seeking out Lance for guidance—even though they were only close for a few weeks, and even though he hasn’t seen Lance in months. It's only now that he sees the dark semicircles waxing under his eyes, that his hair's grown out more haphazardly, that there are new battle scars up and down his arms that weren’t there before.

Keith has been gone a long time. He says nothing.

“It matters because _I_ fucking care about you, is that a crime?”

 

* * *

1.

His father, to the end, never stopped listening. Not to Keith, but to the stars.

Keith had learnt that there was always something larger than the galaxy, the Earth, their small familial unit of only two. Every night, he'd ask about the stars, and every night his father would never answer, and so Keith learnt to speak the language of the universe through the electronic noises emitted by the old equipment.

He'd learnt to read the machines before his own father. During the day, he'd pore over the notes his father made, tried to make sense of the equations and observations spilled over paper, words packed so closely together than the pages were like the night sky itself—inky black, with blank spaces in between.

He'd learnt that the stars speak back if you knew how to start the conversation, if you knew how to interpret their celestial songs. Always the same tune, over and over; it’s when they changed, even by a hair, that you had to listen the most.

 

* * *

6.

There's only one thing left to do.

Around him, Galran ships are still exploding, shockwaves rocking his small fighter ship. All colours of emergency lights are flashing on the communication screens, like neon signs redirecting his attention back to the matter at hand.

There's only one thing left to do. So he shuts off all comms wordlessly and fires up the engines as far as he can go, knuckles bone white around the levers. He knew he was always going to die like this. On Earth or in space, it was always going to be alone. _(Keith’s the loner.)_ The impact of his ship at maximum speed should be enough to disrupt the shields, just long enough so that everyone can redirect their fire, so that everyone can escape.

What greater gift is that of life? What greater gift is that of one life in exchange for hundreds and thousands? What greater gift than his life for the six he knows will live it to its fullest?

Six seconds to impact. He starts a countdown.

They’re more cohesive now under Shiro’s leadership than they’ve ever been under his. Allura’s finally got a talented strategist as a leader. Coran will finally be able to rest once the Galran empire takes this blow. Pidge has her real brother back. Hunk’ll have one less person to worry about, bless his soul.

Lance—Lance has his place among the Paladins, where he belongs.

And that’s fine, isn’t it? They did the math. No loose ends. Neat beginnings, neat endings.

It's fine. It's the only thing left to do.

 

* * *

2.

Keith has never hated anything more than the idea that the universe has a set plan for him. There isn't much else that he hates, but the one thing he _does_ permeates everything he does.

Students stare at him as he drifts through the hallways, expecting him to be deadened. But he’s more alive than ever, entire body thrumming with the pursuit of truth. Through their eyes, the universe watches, offering no guidance. Gone is the only friendship he’s ever had, any semblance of a routine Keith’s ever had in his life, and he has to figure out _why._

The Garrison is lying. This much he knows. He’s played this game before; all of this is supposed to mean something. Something in him whispers, _the countdown has begun_ , and he knows his days are numbered—at least, his days in the Garrison.

He receives his last rites from the universe in the form of Lance, who passes by him when the mess hall is almost empty and there's no one around to see them interact. Like he’s embarrassed to be seen with Keith.

“Look,” he starts off, unsure. It’s certainly unusual for _Lance_ , of all people, to be offering condolences. “I—I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“Kerberos,” he says, and it seems like it physically hurts for him to say it.

Keith braces himself; he remembers these conversations from when he was younger, the social workers never understanding that his father was already long gone in spirit before in body. _I’m sorry for your loss,_ they’d all said. _We’re here if you need to talk._

Their tune never changed. So he never spoke back.

He rolls his eyes. “Why are you sorry? You didn't have anything to do with it, did you?”

“Of _course not_ ,” Lance says, his voice raising. It draws the attention of others, so he lowers his voice again. "Of course not, but you guys were close, and I know that's hard."

“It's alright,” he says, poking at the food on his plate, because it really is. Shiro isn't dead, and he doesn't need condolences. He’s just got a feeling, and he’s never been wrong about those. “Shiro isn't dead.”

(He doesn't expect anyone to understand, least of all Lance. They’ve never talked much before this, other than a few bad first impressions that leaves Keith unable to predict whether the other really does hate him or if Keith himself is so exceptionally bad at making friends that it leaves even a person like _Lance_ at a loss.

But if there’s one thing he’s noticed about Lance, it’s that he always aims straight and true, never giving up once he’s dug his teeth into something. Keith can sympathize with that.)

In that moment, he’d stared at Keith, opened his mouth, closed it. “If you ever wanna talk to anyone, I guess I can lend an ear.”

 

* * *

4.

He and Pidge are hugging the edge of the hall in traditional Altean dress, simply observing the rest of the gala. Parties like this are always a nice gesture, and he's gotten better at public appearances, but for the most part nothing beats sitting with Pidge and alien-watching with her.

(It’s not so much alien-watching these days as it is person-watching. If the Keith from a few months ago could hear his thoughts, he’d laugh; all the aliens in the universe and his thoughts are still just filled with a single human being.)

“There he goes,” Pidge says, gesturing towards Lance as he saunters up towards a partygoer. “What line d'you think he'll use today?”

He watches, waits for the standard opener, Lance's appetizer before his main course. _The name's Lance,_ the shape of his lips form, familiar and standard. Always starting with his name. “I'm not that creative,” Keith muses, looking at her from the corner of his eyes and smiling. “But I will make bets.”

Pidge hums for a moment, pretending to deliberate, but Keith knows that look on her face. She’s already got some smarmy comment lined up, just waiting for him to ask her about it. “I’m thinking, ‘it must have been fate that the stars aligned for us to meet today’. He probably thinks they’re into horoscopes.”

Keith snorts into his glass.

 

* * *

11.

He’s caught and kept in a warm embrace before he registers he’s awake, upright, and subject to the harsh reality of artificial gravity. The room is dimmed, the castle ship in its night cycle, and stars flash against the back of his eyes when he closes them out of pain.

A long sigh, shaky and grounding, curls around him. It’s the loudest thing in the room. Supernovas of light, explosions of sound. Something or other.

“Hey, Lance,” he says, voice hoarse from disuse, but heart feeling lighter than it has in months.

“Fuck you, Keith,” Lance whispers into the crook of his neck, and it sounds broken and angry and like home, all at once.

In the corner of the room, over his shoulder, Keith sees blue armour stained with blood.

 

 

 


End file.
